


Sweetness, I Was Only Joking When I Said I'd Like To Smash Every Tooth In Your Head

by sherlocked10097



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, IT DOESN'T LAST LONG BUT IT'S STILL THERE, M/M, RP format, Reichenbach, Reichenbach Reimagined, SO HEED THE WARNING, Sheriarty - Freeform, Suicidal Intent, Texting, WARNING: SOME DUB CON, and giving each other confusion and blue balls but what else is new, stubborn twats being stubborn twats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6056581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked10097/pseuds/sherlocked10097
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can do anything you like with me."<br/>At that offer, Sherlock comes up with a new solution to the final problem.<br/>It's not the best solution.<br/>But may get him closer to what he <i>really</i> wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetness, I Was Only Joking When I Said I'd Like To Smash Every Tooth In Your Head

What is your aim? –SH

Really? Mr. Hard-on For Mystery, tired of mystery at last? –JM

Enough. –SH

What are you doing? –SH

Playing with you. Like always. –JM

This isn’t a game. –SH

Oh? When did it stop being one? –JM

When you began ruining my work. –SH

Hypocritical of you. –JM

Is it? –SH

You throw a wrench in my machines all the time, what’s the difference? –JM

You offered. You sent me that phone. You gave me clues. –SH

That’s a game. This is… -SH

Real. –SH

It is that. –JM

[no reply]

And there’s more to come. –JM

I know. That’s what I’m afraid of. –SH

Afraid for whom? Yourself? Dear John? Other innocent bystanders? –JM

You’ve lost the right to answers. –SH

That’s fine. I’m not the one desperate for them. You’re an open book to me. –JM

If it weren’t for the impending burn, I’d almost think you’d lost interest entirely. –SH

Told you at the pool I’d get around to killing you eventually. Nice to be taken seriously. –JM

If that’s where this is going. –SH

Nowhere else it could. –JM

[delay] I can’t stop you. –SH

Nope. –JM

I suppose I’m regretful that it’s over. –SH

You’ve had a good run. Achieved more exciting things than ordinary people do. –JM

From time to time I may even miss you. The price one pays for victory, alas. –JM

Isn’t it? –SH

But I’ve got things to attend to, then. Accounts to settle. –SH

Droll. But yes. Unless you think you can beat me somehow. –JM

If I thought so, it’d be the height of hubris to tell you. –SH

And there are things that won’t be droll at all. –SH

Tell me one. –JM

Why should I? –SH

Because I’ll promise not to sabotage it. –JM

Fine. –SH

Only seems fair to tell the Woman of my impending doom, since she’s done the same for me. –SH

How sweet. –JM

I’m going to die, now seems the time to be sentimental. –SH

[no reply]

I’d say goodbye, but I’m certain we will find time. –SH

We will, sexy. The asteroid orbits, soon to crash down, but it’s not the end times quite yet. –JM

Dramatic. –SH

Oh, I’m just getting started. –JM

[delay] Just go away. –SH

 

-

 

Afraid. Sherlock had said over text that he was. Well, Jim wasn't, even whilst being threatened and held partway off a building. Was Sherlock going to kill him? Because _that'd_ look so good for him in the papers. Jim meanwhile had nothing to lose. "Three bullets; three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now," he spat out in gleeful reminder, watching it hit Sherlock, watch the dread spread over his face. Sherlock made a _decision_ , apparently, to puzzle or talk it over, because Jim was pulled back up with such force that he nearly toppled into Sherlock's arms. Close, staying close was good, when everything was so enlivening and proximity had been such a dance. But oh, the plan took precedence. "Unless my people see you jump." Sherlock had gone all pensive now, mulling it over with teeming brain, and Jim slipped out of his hands, shaking his head. _Oh, Sherlock. This is where we are. Look sharp and deal with it. Or die trying_. "You can have me arrested. You can torture me, you can do anything you like with me. But nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger! Your only three friends in the world will _die_ , unless..." he hissed, leaning in, needing Sherlock to talk, answer, good god, this was supposed to be or at least seem a final battle, a little participation would be nice!

"Unless..." Sherlock looked down, his gaze distant, running through his list of scenarios. At least seven were about going over the roof, so there was some assurance in that. But- None of them had accounted for the threat to his companions. Even with his grand schemes, Moriarty always had an edge of intimidation. He'd have to jump, he just _had_ to. In that, the shorter man had taken his choice, his power. That wouldn't do. "Unless I jump, and complete your story," he finished, mind reeling back in. He tossed- twitched his head to the side, looking back at Jim, yet another plan forming. A dastardly, dark plan, a swimming unknown behind his eyes. "How much time do I have to decide?"

Oh, good, he understood. "You gotta admit, that's sexier," he taunted, then forced the smile off his face, back to a hard jaw and grit teeth, back to a cruel force of nature that didn't care he was standing inches away from Sherlock, still gorgeous despite all his disappointments. Time, though? He wasn't about to pull out his phone and check the minutes on that, relate to Sherlock the specific details of every peril. So he scoffed. "Decide to let your friends die? Sounds pretty silly to me, I mean, I know you like corpses better than people but it's not like you'll be around to chop 'em up for experiments." He furrowed his brow in mock thought. " _You_ won't even be in one piece, after all...If you're an organ donor, you'll be a disappointment there, too..."

Sherlock shrugged, "If I decide not to jump, to let them die, I argue that I'll still be quite intact." He offered a small, knowing smirk, "Unless you plan on retaliation for my non-compliance. But, alas, don't fret..." He leaned in slightly, dropping his tone, "I've already decided. I'm going to jump." His fingertips brushed over the fabric of Jim's shirt, just under his navel. "I was asking how much _time_ I had until it has to happen." Call it savoring the last of his life, from Jim's perspective. And from Sherlock's, a moment of vengeance.

So they'd go out together, as it should be in Jim's mind. Truly? Or did Sherlock have some other trick up his sleeve? At the touch Jim flinched on instinct, god forbid Sherlock find the gun, but not out of reach entirely. Okay, so apparently grabbing Jim and holding him over the edge of the roof was as exciting to Sherlock as it had been for Jim. He licked his lips as he glanced down at the hand, so so near his belt, jaw dropping some. That...no matter how much he'd wanted it and still might...wasn't an option. Tricks, tricks. Jim swallowed, staring up at Sherlock with a sneer he hoped was convincing. "Little late for _that_ , honey."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, hand flinching back as Jim's body did. A rejection? His words weren't of revulsion. But not of regret, exactly either. Oh but that _face_. So the detective hadn't read him wrong at all. He stepped forward to close the gap, a hand reaching again to grab the buckle on Jim's belt, the other sliding up his chest. "Not how I pictured our first time, no... And, ah, there are so many reasons we shouldn't."

It felt as if his heart leaped and then dropped to under his gut, precisely where Sherlock wanted it to. _Jesus fuck_. _And **I'm** the insane one?_   Jim should push him away. Should. His breath caught, eyes wide with not only alarm at this new, unexpected predicament. Two could play this game as well as any other one, before putting it to a screeching halt. "Is this why you chased down poor little Richard Brook, hm? Why you wanted to catch me so badly?" he asked, leaning in closer, unsteady breaths hitting Sherlock's ear. "Or is it all this talk of impending doom that turns you on?"

Sherlock grinned, arm curling around Jim's torso, long fingers beginning to pry at the leather. " _Never_ underestimate your own ability to inspire. Such a clever act, Mr. Brook, but unfortunately, we had a much more immediate audience." And the danger only brought him to new heights. The combination of a thrilling case, threat of death, and _Jim._ So close. Here. Falling for it. The belt was pulled from the metal tine, lingering before yanking it open entirely. "And I've seen how you look at me. Wouldn't it be a terrible shame...?" To leave a possibility untried. To completely cross out the chance, forever?

Jim laughed softly at the question, a touch hysterical for how throaty it sounded. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Feeling, sure, felt it countless times, at Sherlock's _imagined_ hands, never the real thing, it wasn't possible... "Fuck you, Sherlock," he muttered, shaking his head, pulling away enough to search that pretty face, his own expression nearing hopelessness. This was the last thing he needed, really. But what a thing to do before dying, Sherlock was right about that, what a...He hadn't been so coarse as to lay hands on the other yet but did now, giving Sherlock a forceful shove back and away. " _Don't_ ," he snarled, "Play with me."

Sherlock hadn't been prepared for the shove. Hadn't been prepared for such a visceral reaction at all -- he stumbled backward. As he tripped backward, he tried to keep a brave face, hands thrown back to soften the fall, thoughts whirring through a new plan. "I wasn't..." He sighed, contemplating his next move, not quite ready to get off the ground, somewhat ashamed at his defeat. "But. I suppose we're running out of time anyway..."

That had felt good. A return to power, after having it temporarily robbed. Jim wanted to do it again. But he wanted a lot of things. Breathing hard, he turned away, palms spread on the roof's ledge, head bowed. How _dare_ Sherlock try that, wave it in his face like it was something the bastard actually wanted...Maybe he did...Maybe he always had...Jim felt like yelling and that would only call attention to their being on the roof. "Bullshit, you _weren't_ ," Jim barked caustically, trying to calm down after seeing red, regretting how revealing the anger was. How badly he _must_ have wanted it, to own up to feeling played. Awful. He shot a withering glance Sherlock's way, and with a quick once-over, sort of regretted doing so. Or at least...regretted shoving him away. Sherlock was visibly hard, and Jim was laughing again. A soft chuckle. But oh, Sherlock wouldn't trust his touch now, would he? Only one way to find out. He stalked to the other, dropping to his knees, one landing between Sherlock's legs. "You're a sick man, honey," Jim stated, leaning down closer with a smile that showed teeth. "And I like it."

Not entirely sure what that was supposed to mean, Sherlock stayed put. That display of rage, and now... What the hell was this supposed to be? Jim crawling over him when he'd made it so devastatingly clear... "Your turn to play me now, is it?" he mused, humming slightly in disappointment. "It's difficult to convince me of sincerity when you've already made your _real_ feelings clear."

Jim's lips were unconsciously parted as he listened, watched the movement of Sherlock's. He was leaning bodily over Sherlock Holmes. Who wanted him. What had the darling said, imminent death being the time for sentimentality? No time like the very present but there'd be too much to _say_. So he'd much rather act. Shaking his head as he craned down, Jim's hand drove into Sherlock's curls as he shut the other up with a hard, eager kiss.

Well. That was one way to present a counterpoint. And perhaps Jim would change his mind and otherwise harm him again. But there was always the chance at... Well. Something greater. Letting his eyes close, he parted his lips, flicking out his tongue, lightly tracing the soft curve of flesh, heart skipping beats as he breathed the moment in.

Tears sprang behind Jim's squeezed-shut eyelids, for no reason! Other than this...heaven! or whatever it was, of getting what he'd both flaunted and concealed wanting. But the cold air could be to blame if questioned, hell, _everything_ seized up on him, heart wanting to fly clear out his ribs, body trembling some as Sherlock kissed back. The Plan had been irreparably fractured, and Sherlock wasn't asking how much time anymore, just kissing back. Jim sucked at lower lip and let himself fall a little closer, the sudden pressure of Sherlock's cock against his own drawing a sharp gasp. Too heady, too much, too necessary, too gorgeous. He panted into the kiss like a desperate thing, the fingers in Sherlock's curls stretching out and closing again, as if the other might evaporate if Jim let him go for a second. A risk he simply didn't want to take, tongue stroking at Sherlock's with something that felt uncomfortably, pathetically like gratitude.

A soft moan escaped from low in Sherlock's throat, rolling his hips as Jim relaxed against him. A small part of him screamed about this not being the right place or time. Another nagging voice tried to remind him that lives were at stake. But another, much louder, rowdier, _hungrier_ voice compelled him to bite and suck at Jim's lower lip. And then to grab at his slicked back hair, other hand pushing off the ground, throwing his weight and momentum into rolling them over, on top of Jim, pinning him under his body, kissing him with more passion and abandon than technique.

From death threats to tussling like schoolboys and kissing each other senseless...Jim should screw Sherlock's entire life up more often, if this was the beautiful result. Breathing, though, got tricky after awhile, and Jim broke off from the fervent kisses with a gasp. His hips strained upwards, still, and he looked stricken up at Sherlock, hands reaching beneath the Belstaff to squeeze his sides, his hips, his arse. "Convinced yet?" he managed to ask, breathless but wry.

"Convinced." Sherlock answered simply, stroking a careful hand through Jim's hair, now a bit mussed (which was, as a point of muted pride, his own fault). He let a pause hang, loaded with heavy breathing, gasps to regain lost breath... But then he frowned, letting the darkness come over him again. He gave a tiny nod, then let go of Jim, hands planting into the concrete, boosting onto his knees, out of the smaller man's grasp, then standing himself up, brushing off his trousers before offering Jim a hand to help him up, eyes fixed on something beyond the moment once more.

Jim felt a _pang_ at something so simple as Sherlock smoothing his hair, blinking up at the white wrist and coat sleeve just above his eyes. Tenderness hadn't a place her...and where was he _going_?! Doubt, fear? Or had Jim really fallen hard for something false? He felt colder already. Missed the closeness. Wanted to get off and get Sherlock off, so what was this? He eyed the proffered hand warily for a moment before accepting it, accepting this-- pause? Complete cease of fiery pleasant crashing together? He didn't know. And had to bite down on yet another comment - another half-lie - about disappointment. "No, it _doesn't_ change anything," he answered before Sherlock could ask, and made a _point_ of re-closing his belt buckle, stifling a groan at the brush of his own hand.

"No. It doesn't." Sherlock agreed, but quickly felt a surge of anger, possessiveness, hands snatching Jim's away from his belt, not bothering to hide the tiniest of growls. "But that doesn't mean I'm _done_ with you." He wet his lips, one of his hands clasping both of Jim's wrists, the other righting the wrong just committed. "I'm dying for you. Think about that." He yanked the belt open roughly, snaking it out of the loops, freeing it from Jim's trousers entirely. His hardened gaze found Jim's, something between malice and arousal in his expression. "How much time do I have?"

So Sherlock didn't want to be grabbed-at, he wanted control. It seemed sensible when considered but in practice was a shock to Jim's system in the best way. That growl struck a deep chord, and Jim didn't even try to wrest his hands away. Hope was restored, Sherlock wasn't done, and _oh, darling, don't be dramatic, my empire and I have been dying for you since the moment I laid eyes on you._ Jim swallowed, the sheer intensity of Sherlock's gaze earning a tic of a nervous smile from Jim. Christ, he was _throbbing_. "Tw-" He licked his lips, tried again. "Twenty minutes, give or take..." _Kiss me again, damn you._ Had Sherlock only made them rise to find out if Jim could stay steadily upright? Because his knees felt a little on the shaky side.

Sherlock sighed, grimacing, but recovering quickly at the dwindling clock. "Not nearly enough... But it'll have to do." He squeezed Jim's wrists. "I'm going to let you go. When I do, you will turn around and put your hands behind your back. And if you don't..." He glanced to the edge of the parapet, "Then we'll be cut twenty minutes early, understand?"

Jim blinked, enough blood returning to his brain to make it race. It sounded like the worst idea. He'd told Sherlock at the pool he wouldn't stop him; he didn't actually care to be arrested, thankyaverymuch, jail food was dreadful. And now 'if you don't'? Jim didn't like threats. His body warred with his ever-rebellious spirit. "Kinky..." he muttered coolly, feeling mistrust rise, covering it with a smirk in Sherlock's direction, eyebrows raised in a taunt. Could still pull his hands away yet, toss that belt over the edge, tell Sherlock to fuck off again, end the party early in a big way - all valid options. Jim needed some leverage again. Should have found it in one of those options, but no. Instead, he let Sherlock keep his hands but began to lower to his knees once more. Eye level with Sherlock's groin, but he cast his gaze upward. Curious and behaving, so long as he'd get something out of it, which amounted to Sherlock trusting him not to bite if he wanted Jim's mouth. (Which he did whether he'd admit it or not.) He put force into pushing his hands apart, holding them up and out before letting them meet again behind his back. Could be one of the worst decisions he'd ever made but who cared at this point. Nothing to lose.

"Not _quite_ what I was after," Sherlock huffed, now-free hand running through Jim's hair again. Though not able to say he was _unaffected_ , it wouldn't serve his purposes. "A lovely sight. But not how I'd like to spend my remaining time." However... It was a matter of trust. Which he didn't have. "Vulnerability..." He muttered, considering as he searched Jim's face. "I told you this wasn't how I pictured our first time. Because... Well. It won't matter that you know now. But I always thought it wouldn't be rushed. That it'd happen because we both needed it to." He wet his lips, "And that we both might find a moment of solace in each other. Now... Now, for me, it's about reclaiming what I can." It wasn't all a lie. He'd really thought of it all before. Often enough it had a spot in his mind palace, away from anything else that might interfere.

He didn't know what to make of being petted thus. Or of Sherlock's monologue that seemed entirely heartfelt. For a moment Jim thought he might be sick, so sudden was the disgust with himself that _these_ were their circumstances, their only chance, when there may have been...well, better. The flush faded from his cheeks, and he watched Sherlock uncertainly. _Why are you telling me this?_ Solace! If Jim had ever thought that were possible, things may have gone so differently... He was dry-mouthed and speechless, taking stock of every feeling he'd ever had for Sherlock as they popped up in unspoken echo, and that in itself spoke volumes.

The lack of response was... Troubling. But what did it matter, really? Whether or not it was reciprocated, he was _curious_ , but it changed nothing. "I consider you to be my equal." He said, then amended, "Soon to be 'considered,' I suppose. But it does no good to dwell." He stepped away, dropping the belt as he walked back to the ledge. "Come here," he said, voice measured, careful not to betray the slight twinge of pain. He'd live. But in all likelihood, it meant never letting Jim know, or anyone but Mycroft for that matter, that he was still alive.

Pain and confusion flickered then settled on Jim's face. What was Sherlock after? The sentiments were...fine, _good_ that Sherlock felt them, it meant a lot, but...Way to kill the mood. And as if Jim was going to take orders? Fuck. He'd been up and down physically for Sherlock several times the past couple of minutes alone. But it was awkward now to be kneeling, when there was no fun to be had. Sherlock I done with him. Or Jim was done with Sherlock, ha. Wasn't that supposed to be the point? Still hard for the bastard, though. Jim reigned in a dissatisfied growl as he stood, brushed off his knees, questioned every decision and order he'd made in the past 24 hours. Fuck...all of this, if Sherlock meant any of what he said, but at the same time, it could only ever change so much. He didn't 'come here', because he wasn't a damn puppy. "Everything I could confess, I already have. You wanna have a pity party, go right ahead." Still no softness in his tone, for...the only person he'd ever considered it with, to maybe reach that point and remain interested; ah, but what a maddening mix of thoughts. Jim stalked several feet away, sitting on the ledge again, back turned to Sherlock as he tried to reason things out. It was simply _too late_...

Sherlock sighed, "I have to wonder if you have real motives under all that bravado..." He paced over quickly, upon Jim near-instantly, pulling him back to standing, once more throwing the man off balance, feeling the power in his hands once more. He'd lost his cool, almost apathetic mask in record time. "Or if you simply _enjoy_ being difficult for the sake of it. Or perhaps..." He mused, stepping in, pressing his thigh against Jim's groin, grinding against it roughly, "You're just afraid to let someone else _have_ you. As an equal, not as an act of condescension or near-bestiality." He stole a kiss, whispering with something close to tenderness in his hiss, "But don't worry, I'll be gone soon enough." _And it's all your fault._

He couldn't breathe or think like this! Didn't know whether to pull Sherlock in closer or pull out his own hair in frustration. Lust was a menace. They had too much power over each other. It was supposed to be fatal. Supposed to make it all stop. Sherlock was all right and all wrong, _only_ an equal would do, only Sherlock, and it was _horrible_. That the first glimmer of hope would come _now_ , was horrible too. Jim grimaced, pulled his head back from the kiss as if stung. The gun burned a hole in his pocket, consoling as an option, as the only option, but what if this was real? Or could be real? Mixed messages, wires that didn't connect, or branched wildly to places so unforeseen he couldn't keep track of them all. "I'll call them _off_ , just get away from me," he panted out.

" _No_ ," Sherlock hissed. "I'm jumping. Because it's what you wanted. What you have forced me in to." But the very fact that the snipers _could_ be called off. That Jim had the power to do so, so readily -- that could be interesting. "This is what _I_ want." He kissed him again, somewhat pleased with the result the last time, then let him go, catching his shoulder and flipping him around, staying behind him, pressing his front over the raised ledge hard, bending his body over, face looking at the sidewalk below. "Look. You'll be the last person to see it before it's forever a crime scene." His other hand reached around, flicking open the button on his trousers.

He'd _never_ have done this to Sherlock. There was mysterious, intellectual, devil's-advocate cruelty, and then there was this. Coarse and violent and oh, it could have been enjoyable, if it weren't for pride and many new doubts. Of _course_ **!** he wanted **!** Sherlock's hands all over him **!** But not like this. And maybe not any more, ever. "So they're all gonna die because you can't _listen_ , that's real great, Sherlock," Jim growled contemptuously, eyes scanning the street as told, god, maybe he could just jump _himself_ and end it before it got uglier. Or if Sherlock was about to fuck him here and now, he could blow both their heads off during. Go out with a bang, twice over. His hands gripped the ledge, sorely fighting the urge to elbow Sherlock in the stomach. Everything was a muddle. "You don't _deserve_ solace," he spat quietly. "No more than I do." Lust, hatred, battle, were these the points at which they connected? Maybe they'd never be capable of more.

"True. But life is so rarely about what we _deserve_ ," Sherlock mused, a hint of regret in his voice. "Or maybe it is." He pulled down the zipper, hand sliding under the front of Jim's pants, stroking him too gently for the tone of the situation. "Maybe because we are wretched beings, we can't even find it in ourselves to set our pride aside for the sake of connection... Instead you decided to ruin my life. Instead I decided to keep pursuing you." Instead of whatever they could've had. His hand sped up.

"Stop!, stop, stop..." Pleading. But to stop the words, or the touch? Sherlock was bent on torment, wouldn't listen to any of it. Part of Jim wanted to bask in it, grind back against him. Another part wished he had a knife to shove through Sherlock's other hand. "I-I mean it, I don't..." A groan said otherwise and Jim hated it.

"Stop what?" Sherlock's hand, voice, stuttered for a nanosecond. Had he gone too far? Likely. But he continued all the same. "I asked you to stop. At Kitty's flat. I told you I was _afraid_ over text. But you didn't care."

Jim laughed, deranged. His brain was falling apart. Sherlock was striking every nerve. Of how awful and unsuitable they were, while also being perfect for each other. He was buckling under pressure, when the offer to call it off should have been enough to spare them both. Minutes ago, they'd _kissed_ and Jim had _meant_ it and everything was so awful now. He spoke in a breathy, angry torrent. "Afraid's the only feeling you've ever had about me, Christ, if it bothers you so much, there's a gun in my pocket, fucking _use it_!"

Sherlock stilled his hand, his heart suddenly contracting inward. It wasn't about the gun, though he was starting to believe he deserved it. "Perhaps I was unclear, then..." His voice was distant. He let go. He stepped back, returning Jim's freedom of movement, unimpeded by his weight. "I feared what you've done. What you will do. But you? I've always felt..." He shook his head, stepping up onto the ledge, looking straight down. "Felt affection for, in some way or another. Wanted to be closer to. Wanted to _hold_ , and yes, find that solace. Alone. Willing. Un-coerced. Quiet." He didn't know why he was spilling his guts so, other than that he knew it would be his only chance. "I didn't love you. But I could have."

Jim was shaking as he listened, leaned his weight onto his arms. "Well, I loved you!" How awful for such a truth to explode out from frustration. "I was going to...go _out_ with you today, Sherlock, you and I together, because I can't actually bear..." Tears sprang to his eyes and Jim wiped his coat sleeve over his face. "Still want to, if this is all we can do to each other," he continued, mordant in tone as if it were all somehow Sherlock's fault. "But I told you. I'll call it off. Get down. It doesn't matter."

Sherlock felt as if he'd hit the ground already. Crushed. Oxygen knocked out of him. Even his bones felt jostled. "If this is all we can do... I get down, and then what? Things can't ever go back to how they were." He wet his lips, still looking down, giving Jim what privacy he could to weep. "It matters, Jim. All of it. And I'm not about to live in a world without..." _You._   "Color. Intrigue. Something to live for."

"I don't-- _know_ , Sherlock, god, I'm tired, you have no idea, you just don't, and you've only made it more confusing..." Jim sank unsteadily, the picture of abject misery, forehead pressed into his arm against the ledge. "So tired. Why don't _you_ make the plans for once, I'm..."

Sherlock considered. Watched as Jim crumpled. What he wouldn't give to understand. He blinked, stepping down, kneeling beside the smaller man, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Call them off." He squeezed gently, "I'll tell Mycroft to back off. Leave the gun here... Take me with you. To your flat. Let's sleep... Let me hold you. And everything else can wait." It sounded like a plan, at least. But easier said than done, with all the damage and danger looming...

Sleep. Jim hadn't had much of that lately. He heaved in a shuddering breath, wanting to lean into the very same touch he was finding it hard to trust. "A. A ceasefire. Yeah?" Sherlock's tone was matter-of-fact yet soft. It was better planning than Jim could manage anymore. He'd bungled even dying, letting Variable Sherlock have a place in it. He'd just wanted him there for it...and now he was there for something else. Jim's features looked melted with exhaustion and sorrows, disappointments. But his tired, wet eyes still tried to read Sherlock's face like they might find something good there, and he was nodding without meaning to.

Sherlock bit his lower lip. " _You_ can cease fire... I surrender." Christ, Jim looked-- well. Done. It hurt the detective to see the weariness. One he'd felt before himself, and often. Then a particularly interesting case would come by... And perhaps that's why this one had hurt him so. It hadn't been to help him at all. "I don't want to fight you anymore."

It felt like losing. All of it. But that was only pride talking. If the day was really going to end with curling up with Sherlock and resting...Lost the battle but won some version of the war that quantum possibility had decided was the only version. Jim wanted to lean into him but couldn't yet, had things to do... He slipped his hand into pocket, meaning to get the phone but found the gun instead. "Oh," he muttered, as if surprised by it, drawing it out carefully and staring at it. Couldn't leave it here, his prints were all over it... "It's my favorite," he said weakly by way of explanation, and handed it barrel-down to Sherlock, to disarm or put the safety on but to hold for now as he got the phone out with shaking hands. One text through blurry eyes, a short series of numbers that had been given beforehand as the code to stand down without question. He signed it -M, tucked phone away and looked back up at Sherlock with a sigh. "Let's go, I...There can be a car real soon, we'll sleep."

Oh. The Beretta really shouldn't have been so jarring of a sight -- Jim had been very clear it was there. That he intended to _use_ it. Sherlock took it gingerly, thumb automatically flicking on the safety. He tucked it into one of his lining pockets, then nodded. "Okay." He also quickly took out his phone for text to Mycroft. 'ABORT. -SH' Then, unable to help himself, took Jim's hand. "Lead the way."

Disorienting, having had death right around the corner and now it was gone. Jim needed that hand to rise so took it, but didn't move immediately. Instead he gazed up at Sherlock, a small sad smile on his lips, other hand rising to stroke his porcelain cheek. Silently, Jim stood taller and pursed his lips to Sherlock once, and again, tender and light and not as afraid as he'd been accused of.

Sherlock smiled against Jim's lips, raising just after him, slow and unthreatening as possible. He felt lighter, as if gravity had been amped down, heart fluttering. "Let me love you..." He begged softly, pressing their foreheads together. It wasn't hopeless, not when there were options. And now, with everything paused, heat of the moment fallen away to something new... The path didn't feel as set.

Did he want what Sherlock was offering, more than death? That was the real question. Fresh tears welled in his eyes at the _rawness_ of the offer. It was so, so sweet. They'd have at least today. Decisions could be made once the confusion was gone. But he couldn't _promise_ anything. And that hurt in its own way. "You're beautiful," he whispered brokenly, planting another soft kiss to Sherlock's lips, sighing against them. He wanted to wrap his arms around Sherlock and not let go. Instead he pulled away, sniffled, and shook his head before reaching for his phone again. [Swing by Bart's. Truce. Expect company. -JM] Moran could pick them up, drop them off, and knew well enough not to question a goddamn thing. "Alright, let's get out of here." He tugged at Sherlock's hand a little but didn't so much lead as shuffle along to the rooftop door, bumping unsteadily into Sherlock's side every few steps.

 

-

 

Sherlock had been expecting a flat, the common dwelling of most Londoners. A pricey one, of course, it was Jim he was in the company of. But a house. A quaint one, not particularly intimidating or showy. All sorts of things he didn't associate with Jim happening today. Starting with the fact they were here, together, followed by Jim leaning against him the whole ride. He'd thought with how standoffish he'd been (with good reason, dear lord he was ashamed by his actions). He followed Jim in, keeping close, but not touching him again until he was given explicit permission. Sherlock did make a concession to shrug out of his coat, hanging out by the door. "I'm glad I'm here." Sounded dumb, simple, obvious, _ordinary_... But he wanted Jim to know it wasn't just a play. He turned back to Jim giving an uncertain smile, "Bedroom?"

Now that he was _allowed_ to be tired, rather than merciless and battle-ready, Jim was exhausted. Barely standing, as he locked the door behind them, toed off his shoes, tried not to think about how he'd never actually intended to come home again. He offered Sherlock a weak smile in response, glad too at least at being together rather than back here alone, and nodded. Oh, god, but the room. The state it was in. The broken dresser mirror, the clothes, the gun case on the bed. "S'a bit of a mess," he warned glumly - c _ouldn't decide what to wear to die in_ \- but led the way there, sighing at the sight of it. "Not usually like..." What was the point in explaining? His hands felt heavy at his sides, useless things. "Help me out of this suit," he requested in a mutter, already feeling so bared to Sherlock, why not let him undress him? Maybe the touches would help perk him up, see the good in everything they'd decided.

At the sight of the mirror, Sherlock blinked, swallowed, let his eyes drop to Jim's hands, searching for the telltale cuts off desperation and revulsion. None. _Still severe..._ But still done with an ounce of self-preservation. He barely heard Jim, or his request, but his body must've, trembling hands lifting, grabbing either side of the suit jacket, sliding it off gently. "You should have seen my room during my -- what I hope to be -- last overdose..." He looked down, pointedly at Jim's buttons as he plucked them open. "If you could call it that. There weren't four full walls..." He wet his lips, leaning forward, impulsively kissing over Jim's heart as he undid the last fasten. "I'll help you clean. After."

For someone who never troubled to say the right thing to anyone, Sherlock knew how to say the right thing. Jim swallowed thickly as he was unbuttoned, and knew he didn't want to picture it. Oh, dear Sherlock. Jim's hands rose, rested gently atop the beloved curls, and he stared down at the other with a curious mix of pity, adoration and everything he couldn't voice. Sherlock understood it all. Jim kissed his forehead, lingering, feeling the perfect understanding pass between them for several moments before he moved his head back, shifted his shoulders to let the shirt fall, down to undershirt and tie. "I'd do the same for you," was all he could come up with, because it _was_ sort of a promise, and all he could say again of love.

"I know." Sherlock said, voice a bit gravelly, betraying the tears he was doing such a good job of holding back. That this might be the only, the last- but he didn't let that thought finish. No one had ever understood him so thoroughly. He loosened his tie, slipping it over Jim's head, then paused as he let it fall to the floor. "How much would you like to sleep in...?" He wanted to see him bare, yes. But there was so much vulnerability being juggled, he didn't want to scare what he'd only just gained.

Lowering his head to let the tie slip felt like being de-crowned. And in the moment, that was a relief. And wasn't Sherlock sweet. "Well, you already took my belt," he mumbled consent with a hint of the usual wit to lose the trousers, and licked his lips. Would Sherlock be alright if Jim returned the favor? Damn well should be, considering how hard he'd come at Jim earlier... His fingers played at the hem of Sherlock's jacket, just brushing shirt buttons below. "...and you?"

Sherlock's breath caught as Jim even _transitively_ touched him. "I... Don't usually wear anything at all to bed. But you knew that." Pictures of him being escorted out of Baker Street in a sheet was hint enough of that. He slowly opened Jim's trousers, feeling less _invasive_ than he had been before. "Whatever you're comfortable with." He stepped forward, walking Jim into the mattress, tugging down his waistband, letting the expensive fabric fall, letting his eyes dart down only a moment to check out his legs.

Whatever Jim was comfortable with. What a different song being sung, than the insistent hands and uncaring rush on the rooftop. Jim swallowed, about to start on Sherlock's clothes when he was shifted back. Gently, not manhandled. Still, a bit difficult to accept and move with it; but exhaustion won out, and he let the clothes disappear with little regard to where they ended up. Licking his lips he looked up at Sherlock, hands moving again to unbutton his jacket. "Did you... _mean_ any of that on the roof, about picturing it a certain way?" he asked softly, fingers subconsciously paused.

Sherlock wet his lips, stepping closer, _ostensibly_ to help Jim unbutton him. At the question he smiled, eyes scanning over revealed, creamy skin. "Of course I did." He placed his hands on Jim's shoulders. "Slow. Gentle. A craving for the experience, of being close to you..." Save for the closeness, nothing like what would've happened on the rooftop. If that could even be called "close" aside from the physical. "We don't have to get into the finer details now."

Silent and big-eyed Jim listened, wanted to trust the smile and the warmth of Sherlock's hands on his skin. His lower lip pushed up in the smallest sneering pout, when he came to terms with not being sure that he _could_. Wanted to, certainly. Sherlock looked earnest enough. The pout smoothed out - what must Sherlock have read in it? - and he nodded. "No, we don't," Jim agreed, and realized how coarsely disinterested he sounded when the opposite had been true for a long while. "...I like knowing, though," he muttered, working finally at Sherlock's buttons, quick, efficient, pretending they were ordinary ones covering anyone else, not ones he'd been aching to get his hands on. "It's sweet."

Sweet. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. Or how Jim felt at all. "Not something I get accused of often..." He wet his lips, pressing his lips to Jim's forehead as he let him undo his shirt. Again he found himself thinking that it was nothing like he'd imagined. It all felt sweet, yes, but with an underlying bitterness. A poison of uncertainty. And from Jim, likely pain. "I wish you'd simply come to me. Before it all got so... Intense."

Jim's features pinched as he pulled a face at those words, hands dropping. "I don't mind the closeness, honey, but don't talk to me like you're my keeper," he sighed, moving further up onto the bed and leaving Sherlock to his own undressing. "As of...an hour ago, I figured you for about as emotionally available as a cinder block," he explained more calmly while pulling his socks off, tossing them beside the bed. Down to underwear, Jim tugged an already rumpled blanket over himself. "So it didn't strike me as the easiest of options, go figure."

Sherlock had to stop himself from physically balking. Watched in silent annoyance. "Go to sleep, Jim." He sniffed, shrugging out of his shirt, loosening his belt and dropping his trousers. He took the opposite side of the bed, pulling the covers over himself as well, a word burning in his brain: **machine.**

Closing his eyes, Jim sighed inwardly. He hadn't been the most receptive, though comparing a day of it to Sherlock's _years_ of ignoring his flirtations, small potatoes. Though this wasn't the game anymore, and opening his eyes to see that lovely curly head on one of his pillows, and know Sherlock was in reach in every way...It made his chest ache. "I've been no better, I know that," he offered quietly, reaching out a single fingertip and tracing a line from nape to between shoulder blades. For Sherlock's attention, and in a kind of apology.

Automatically, Sherlock's neck rolled back, shivering slightly. No better. As if Sherlock had been good, or transparent at all. As if he were _capable_ of such intimate connection with someone. He desperately wanted to be. He rolled over slowly, trying not to crush Jim's arm. Blinking rapidly, the sight was so hard to reconcile: Jim. There. With him. Mostly nude. In bed. Looking at him in anything other than resentment... He could get used to that. "Do you really love me?"

The question hung in the air, the room quiet enough again to hear a pin drop. The earnest curiosity written all over Sherlock's face was almost too much, too precious, to bear. "If there were anyone for me, Sherlock, it'd be you," Jim answered softly, hand resting on the bed between them. "And I've felt that quite sharply at times. Whatever it amounts to...or whether I'd be good at anything more than _adoring_ you...I don't know."

Sherlock's lip twitched up on one side, so briefly it was almost imperceptible. It wasn't the lack of a yes, or even the possibility of a no. Their fears were the same. And for once, he didn't feel so achingly alone. He took Jim's hand, lacing their fingers together. "I've never been in love before," he replied, both hoping _and_ knowing Jim would understand it's full meaning.

Jim laughed, a tiny snort. The closest thing he'd felt to good humor all day. But Sherlock was always entertaining. "Well," he swallowed, gaze traveling to the wonder of their hands entwined. "This'll be interesting, won't it." Not that he was entirely certain he wouldn't wake up tomorrow and take another crack at dying. But with a good dose of the best distraction, in a whole new way, the chance was slimmer.

Sherlock grinned, accentuating the lines in his face. It was so... Mundane. But with Jim, even the ordinary was brilliant. He snuggled closer, fighting the urge to kiss him properly, opting for one on the forehead. "Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up. We'll talk about everything. Promise."

Such a simple kiss - it felt like a blessing. And under _any_ other circumstances, he'd likely be riled, _mad_ for Sherlock in bed with him. But at the thrice-given permission to rest, Jim was yawning despite himself, nodding absently, scooting into the touch he was beginning to trust. "Okay," he murmured, reaching up with free hand and stroked once through Sherlock's wild curls, fingers settling on his neck, lightly caressing his nape. A sudden bout of amazement was close to overwhelming, Jim nuzzling in near enough to kiss Sherlock's throat once, bury his forehead against the warm skin of his shoulder. If he woke up tomorrow and this had all been a dream...well, he'd be very put out.

Hesitant, Sherlock curled an arm over Jim's waist, palm lightly rubbing up his back until it rested between his shoulder blades. Stifling a yawn himself, he closed his eyes, still smiling. He let his senses hone in on Jim's body: his breathing, his scent, the feel of his skin. Eventually he felt the shorter man give up the fight for consciousness, pulse and respiration slowing. When the detective was reasonably sure Jim was out cold, he whispered, "Thank you." He fell asleep soon after.


End file.
